High Heels Can Kiss My Ass

Last year I wore a pair of Manolo Blahniks to my niece’s dance recital. I bought them in 2012, brand new at a second-hand store for $125. Pretty good, right? Except no. Cause they hurt worse than contractions.

Okay, maybe not quite as bad, but they do make my feet bark.

At one point I looked at my brother and said, “High heels can kiss my ass.” Thus the idea for this installment was born, along with the realization that since becoming a mom, I have zero tolerance for clothes that don’t fit well.

My time and energy are consumed with a child. Forget labels. Forget trends. Having to tug, pull, or reposition every time I sit, stand, or walk, takes more effort than I’m willing to give.

In that spirit, and working from the feet up, here are a few of my fashion-related mom truths.

Back to shoes. If they alter my walk in any way, including but not limited to shorter strides or toe choreography to keep them in place? Gone. If they squeeze my feet too tightly? Buh-bye. And if they’re a culprit of all three strikes? OUT! I don’t mean out of the closet into a “someday I might wear them again because they’re really pretty” pile. I mean out of the house.

Of all of my shoes, high heels have the highest eviction rate; they’re notorious for falling into the three strike category.

I’m curious, who’s the braintrust that decided walking on mini stilts is “stylish”? Who decided that 4 inches wasn’t precarious enough, make them higher! A person who’s never worn them, that’s who.

When I see women out wobble-walking on menacing mules I don’t think, “Woah, she looks great!” I think, “Oh honey. Ouch. Take them off. Get yourself something you can walk in.”

I know I know. I’m such a mom.

Moving on to pants. I can’t even guess how many pairs I’ve parted with because they no longer fit me…IN THE RISE. I always assumed moms got rid of pants because they became too tight in the waist. While that can be true, it’s not the only reason: Your Crotch Can Also Outgrow Pants. Camel toe hurts worse than it looks.

I’m still just shy of 5’3″, but I swear my lady land is an inch longer. No one talks about that. So I will. Cause surely I’m not alone.

My baby rode low the whole pregnancy and then hung out in the birth canal a while. That apparently equates to a taller twat even though he was cut out section style. I’m warning you, to-be moms, just because you don’t push a baby out of your vag doesn’t mean your netherlands won’t be altered for life.

A solid inch. I swear.

Okay, maybe half an inch.

Also, while we’re in the vicinity, let’s talk hemorrhoids. That developed during pregnancy because babies can rock a vascular system like no other. But I shan’t touch this topic any further with neither words nor ill-fitting garments. Next.

Nah, that’s not the end. I went up a size in underwear, I no longer own one single thong, and I invested in line-less undies for dresses and such. The most recommended style (which lives up to every ounce of its name, thank you Soma) is complete with lace.

They’re called “vanishing edge bikinis”. True. And also false. They vanish like a magician, as promised. They also cover every inch of my hindquarters. Although they’re coined “bikini”, in my mind they’re a granny panty with lace added to make you feel a little sexier. Nice try. It didn’t work.

Basically, I became a mom and bought lacy granny panties.

And I wear them.

Okay fine. They’re also really comfortable.

As for the girls upstairs, I recently bought a push-up bra (instead of a boob job). As in, I got fitted by a professional who saw my Jamie Jubblies in no fewer than nine bras. We picked a winner, and it’s a beaut when the girls stay in place. But they’re about as likely to cooperate as a cranky three year old in a grocery store. After a little bit of wear, I’m back to a bra gap.

Don’t mind me when you see me reach down my shirt – in public – to put them back in place. I lost any semblance of boob-related tact while breastfeeding. I’m a mom. What.

Which leaves me with tops and dresses. If it’s too short, I spend time pulling it down. If it’s too long, I look like a little kid wearing overgrown clothes. Too loose in the neckline, and I adjust it to stay on my shoulders. I (mostly) gave up on caring about necklines that show off my boobs and belly button every time I bend over (reference breastfeeding comment above).

And can we talk about all of the shirts that used to fit perfectly? But now that my abdomen has outlasted Stretch Armstrong, eating equates to a food baby. As in an actual food baby that could be confused for an actual baby baby. Awesome.

If I have to fuss with clothes at all, they’re gone. If I don’t feel good in them? See ya. Even clothes that I like and fit perfectly are at risk if they’re difficult to take off.

Firstly, let me note that I haven’t worn it since before pregnancy (over five years).

When I tried it on a few days ago, my mom booty prevented me from stepping out of it, and it got stuck on my pushed-up boobs when removing overhead. (This is the point at which this installment shifted from idea to reality.)

With arms pinned by my ears and my face in fabric, I thought, I need a crane. And then I thought, No, I need scissors.

I don’t have time for that nonsense anymore! Because now? I have momsense.

Comments

So I have really grown to look forward to every single post. I’ve known you such a long time and I always thought you were some sort of unicorn person who glided through life and always looked gorgeous, always said the right things, never made a mistake. I love that you are not a unicorn. I love that with your posts I know I’m not alone.